


James

by aspermoth



Category: Total Nonstop Action Wrestling
Genre: Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Murder, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abyss has always been scared of his father, to the point where even after defeating him once and for all, he cannot bear to be rid of him. But now he has the Ring of Hulkamania, can he escape Father James Mitchell once and for all? How?</p>
            </blockquote>





	James

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the song _James_ by Blue October, so if you notice elements of the lyrics here and there, that's why. Also, I know that in real life, James Mitchell is only forty-six and that's nowhere near old, but I'm working in kayfabe.

It had been months since Father James Mitchell had last seen the sun; from his estimate, at least a year and a half had gone by since the defeat of both Judas Mesias and himself at _Against All Odds_. He could not be sure of that, of course: there was no way to measure the passing of time in the dank, dismal cave he now called his home.

It was the coward's way out, leaving him to rot in the dark like a piece of dead vermin. Then again, his son had always been a coward.

For a while, he had screamed at the empty walls, cursing Chris with every foul word in every tongue he could find, but there was no-one to hear it: after a few days, he had lapsed into silence. So he waited, as curled and patient and eager to survive as a tick.

He waited.

*

Courage: Abyss had been struggling to find his ever since he had broken away from his father and became – or at least tried to become – his own man. Through his struggles with Dr Stevie, his confidence had been eaten away until nothing remained but fear, the fear that had been built into the very foundations of his soul by the man he had imprisoned in his basement, too afraid to let him live, too afraid to make him die.

His father had him in the palm of his hand. His father had always had him in the palm of his hand. His father had made him a monster.

But no more. No longer. He had the Ring of Hulkamania now. He had all the courage he needed, all the power he could ever want, lying almost literally in the palm of _his_ hand.

It was time to take his revenge.

*

Mitchell had never known his son to be so stealthy. The great clumsy brute managed to sneak into the cellar without him even noticing. He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark of some kind, to let his razor-sharp tongue cut Chris down like a rapier as it had so many times before, but an unexpected blow to the mouth silenced him and left him spitting blood.

"Kneel. Down."

This was not the same Chris he had threatened and controlled for so long. There was something new inside him, a core of steel, a resilience that Mitchell had thought far beyond him. But Mitchell was the father. He was in control. He would not bend for Chris' whims. He did nothing.

Chris' eyes narrowed behind the mask. He raised his hand again. Threatening his own _father_.

"Close your fucking eyes, and hit the fucking _ground_."

And slowly, Mitchell complied.

*

Abyss was scared, so scared, but he couldn't let it show. He was in control here. He had the Ring of Hulkamania. He was young. He was strong. He was healthy. His father was old, weak, emaciated from months of nothing but dark, damp cellar life.

Abyss was in control. At last, he was in charge, and his father was kneeling on the ground before him. But there was a sneer on his face. He still didn't see that Abyss was not his to abuse any more. He still didn't see that Abyss was born anew.

But he would see.

"Put your hands behind your head, and don't you dare move, or I will make it worse for you, _Father_. I want you to kneel here all day, alone in your desolate cave, and I will be watching you. Don't you dare move."

And that was when his father laughed.

*

Mitchell's laugh was harsh, derisive, disbelieving. Surely Chris wasn't serious. He'd left his own father languishing in a cellar for over a year because he didn't have the guts to deal with him. He hadn't grown a spine in all the thirty-six years he'd been alive. The idea that he could have grown one _now_ was laughable. Ridiculous. A joke. It could not be real.

He could not have anticipated how much of a mistake simple laughter could be.

Chris' shoulders tensed, just like they always had when Mitchell laughed at his stupidity. The next stage was usually despair, then rocking back and forth weeping, then Chris would beg his forgiveness.

But not today. Instead, Chris' gaze hardened, eyes narrowed, gleaming with fury, and he punched Mitchell straight in the face. There was a crunch of cartilage as his nose broke – then a few seconds of blissful numbness – then _agony_.

*

Oh it felt good. It felt so much better than he could have ever dreamed. It was almost as though a small part of the monster he had once been was surfacing again, drawn out by the ring that sat on his finger and the blood of his father that stained his knuckles red. The thuds were like music to his ears as he rained down blows upon the man at his feet. When he was done, he was breathing heavily, and his father was curled up on the ground in the foetal position, silent but shaking with pained gasps.

Abyss grabbed him by the hair and pulled him upright, staring down into those hated eyes. There was the familiar disdain there, and the old hate, but now there was fear – or was it respect? – in that gaze.

He'd always wanted his father's respect, but fear would do for now.

*

Pain. Mitchell was familiar with it. He had been beaten before, bloodied, bruised, even shot. But this was something different. This was beyond what he had thought his son capable of. This was different.

He uncurled painfully, certain that he could already feel the bruises begin to unfurl across his skin like tainted blooms. That took courage. Courage he had beaten out of his son decades ago. There was something wrong here.

Chris grabbed him by his hair and pulled him upright, staring him straight in the eye. Pain burned across his scalp and he gasped, but he did not scream. To scream was to admit defeat.

Chris grinned. If Mitchell had been a man much inclined to fear, it would have been terrifying.

"Scream if you want to, old man. Nobody will hear you."

Mitchell said nothing: he only glared, eyes filled with hate.

"I _want_ you to _scream_."

*

It wasn't easy to make the old man scream. He was tough, like an old boot. Not even the broken nose that had gushed blood down his chin had drawn a cry of pain from him. But Abyss knew how to hurt people. His father had taught him how. Now the student had become the master, and a debt of pain and suffering and screaming was to be paid.

Punching didn't work, and nor did kicking. Not even a broken nose. But the fingers... ah, the fingers. Fingers were brittle, fragile, vulnerable. All he had to do was grab his father's right hand, grasp an index finger, and bend it back. Slowly. Feeling the resistance of tendon, sinew and bone. Pressing harder and harder and _harder_ until... _snap_.

Nothing. His father gasped, tried to pull his arm back, but he didn't scream. But he would. Abyss would make him scream.

*

It wasn't until Chris broke the third finger on his right hand that Mitchell finally snapped. Pain shot through his nerves like a lightning bolt from hand to mind and the scream tore from his throat, aching and raw, echoing dully around the room. His body crumpled against his will and fell to hand and knees, almost in supplication, right arm raised, his hand with its twisted, broken fingers clasped in the great brutish paws of his son. The son who laughed at his pain.

"Yes, _Father_. Squeal like the vile little pig that you are," Chris growled with audible glee. "I want you to squeal for me, and kneel for me. You stay here, and I'll be back."

Mitchell did as he was told. What other choice did he have? Perhaps, if he obeyed, his son would weaken and let him go. And then he could plot his revenge.

*

Abyss managed to hold himself together for long enough to climb the stairs out of the basement and lock the door behind him. Then he crumpled, like a piece of paper withering in a fire, as though in slow motion. He buried his face in his hands, breath coming in short gasps and a desperate, high-pitched giggle welling up from somewhere deep and terrified. He started to rock gently back and forth. Rocking made things better.

He had been brave. He had stood up to his father, the bastard that had terrified him all his life, and he had made the man scream for the pain he'd caused. He could do this. He could do this.

Slowly, his movements stilled. Abyss stood, straightened, and took a deep breath, hands curled into fists, the Ring of Hulkamania dark against fingers clenched so tight they were white.

He had work to do.

*

Mitchell knelt, although he did not know for how long. Time stretched and contorted into a meaningless meandering river that slithered just beyond his grasp, measured not by minutes or hours but by the burning throbbing pain of his broken fingers. He cradled the injured hand to his chest, breathing through the pain, building himself a new system of time. Pain rising, breathing becoming shallow, concentrate on the breaths, slow them down, pain peaking, swallow it down, pain waning, breathing becomes easy. The circle replacing the minutes. Time loosened around him.

Mitchell knelt. He did not scream or squeal. He knew that nobody would hear him but his son and he did not want Chris to have the satisfaction of hearing him scream all day. Chris had made him scream but once: it would not happen again. He could endure pain. He would not scream.

And all day, he knelt.

*

When Abyss returned to the cellar, his father was still kneeling. His head was bowed and Abyss could not see his eyes. And for just a moment, he saw his father as he was from a stranger's perspective: a beaten, bloodied, defeated, emaciated old man, head bowed, fingers twisted and broken, the damaged, swollen hand held to his chest. For just a moment, Abyss felt like a monster in a way that he had never felt before. He felt... irredeemable.

Then his father lifted his head and Abyss saw his eyes. His father's gaze almost burned with hatred and disgust and perhaps a tinge of fear. No respect. No love. Hate.

It was not a gaze that spoke of a beaten and broken man. It was the gaze that spoke of a man who still thought his son was worth less than nothing.

And Abyss knew what he must do.

*

Chris came back. To give the boy credit, Mitchell hadn't expected him to have the nerve. What a pathetic creature he had spawned. A mangy cur fit only to be put down. And as soon as he escaped from here, he would make sure that it would happen. Chris would rue the day that he chose to bite the hand that fed him. He would rain such torments down upon his son as would be spoken of in years to come only in hushed whispers, as though the very mention of their names could bring back the wretched ghosts of agony and unleash them upon those who would speak carelessly.

He would make Chris _suffer_. For every pain, for every indignity, for every moment spent kneeling in a cold damp cellar with a broken hand, he would make Chris _suffer_.

And then he would laugh right in his son's face.

*

Abyss said nothing. His father said nothing. The silence stretched between them like a rope, like a double noose slipped around both their necks, binding and strangling in one. Both glaring. Both full of hate. Both monsters? Or only one?

Abyss knew what he must do. The far past was to break the silence. And he said,

"I love to hate you."

His father did not move. Did not speak. Did nothing but glare and hate. Abyss could practically feel it in his fingers, a corrosive, burning feeling in the air around the man.

"I said, _James_ , that I love to _hate_ you."

And still his father said nothing. Not like that morning when Abyss had come down and he had opened his mouth to spew those poisoned words he had always used. Not like then. What had changed?

And then he knew. And Abyss knew what he must do.

*

"You're not so brave now," Chris giggled.

That giggle. Mitchell hated it. It was infantile. Insufferable. So like Chris. Mitchell wanted to say so, but he chose his battles wisely, and held his tongue.

"You're not so brave when _I_ am the snake, and _you_ are my prey."

Ah, but Mitchell could not help but laugh at that. The idea of Chris – the great clumsy brute, the monster, a man six foot eight in height and over three hundred pounds in weight – being in any way serpent-like was too absurd not to mock. The last time that day he had mocked his son, the boy had assaulted him. Mitchell awaited the blows. He could withstand violence. But none came. Instead, Chris _smiled_ , a combination of genuine happiness and madness, spread across what little Mitchell could see of his son's face beneath the mask.

It was an expression that Mitchell abhorred.

*

Almost every kitchen in the world has a set of knives, and Abyss' kitchen was no exception. It was from the knife block in his kitchen that he had retrieved the largest blade, a creature eight inches long and as sharp as a winter gale, and brought it to the cellar, hidden behind his back in shaking fingers. The black plastic handle clicked gently against the metal of the Ring of Hulkamania, reminding him of its presence, reassuring, calming. The Ring gave him the courage. He had all the courage he could ever need or want lying almost literally in the palm of his hand.

His revenge was but a heartbeat away. All he had to do now was take it, to turn away from the path his father set him on, to get rid of this blackened stain on his heart and mind and soul forever.

It was time.

*

Mitchell felt the blood drain from his face when Chris revealed the knife. It was a big knife, a clumsy brutish knife like his clumsy brutish son, but that made it no less terrifying. His sharp mind told him that he should flee for the stairs and make good his escape, but his legs were stiff and weakened from the day of kneeling and he could not get them to obey him as Chris approached, slowly, softly, like a cat stalking a bird. His own son – his pathetic, worthless, spineless son – was about to murder him in cold blood. Impossible. Insane.

"There's eleven words I rehearsed to say to you," Chris whispered, that giggle lurking around the edges of his voice. "Eleven words I rehearsed to say."

Chris raised the knife above his head.

"I am not afraid of you any more, _Father_. Now die."

And the knife came down.


End file.
